Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.
Gate!Ira! This may mean nothing to anybody but me but Ira’s got this whole other half of him that’s some kinda eldritch living portal-guy? I’m working on it.
CWs: waxplay, noncon uh…gate…play? monster…gatefuck? Non-human forms of eroticism? I’ll get there eventually!
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Ira runs up the stairs, fleeing from the creature, but directions can’t be trusted in a place like this. Space folds and the stairs don’t so much end as stop existing. He’s cornered when it comes shambling up behind him.
It masses bigger than a man, made of long limbs like creaking old branches and gnarls of wax that leave a trail behind it where the burning candle flames melt drips off it.
Ira tries to fight as it grabs for him—for what that’s worth. It seizes one after another of his limbs, his main four and the others that are only partly there, the potentialities of them, and pins him down by them till he’s stretched out on the stairsteps beneath its dripping bulk.
He cries out, joints protesting, as it pulls them wider, spreading him out with the soft gaping core of his gate exposed and unprotected at his center. The gate knows. It’s a throbbing eager heat throughout his core, wanting to be used. He’s a portal after all, he’s made to be opened and passed through. He can’t help thinking of how the great clotted mass of it would feel, pushing into him, rippling through the heart of him… no matter how much he doesn’t want this particular thing on the other side.
But that’s what it wants—and no wonder. Whatever shape this creature was born to, the pressures of this part of existence have crushed and reshaped it, sending its flesh flowing into lumps congealed of its own desires and memories and fears. It wants out of this neverwhere it’s trapped in. Ira’s gate sings to it with a siren song of escape.
Its wax glops down onto Ira’s limbs, pasting them to the floor, and some of its limbs reach down to paw and scrabble at the edges of his gate. Ira thrashes and yelps at long claws dragging along the insides of his rim as it pulls him open. With lurching shudders, it tips more wax off itself to slop it onto his gate, long gripping twigs of its fingers parting the shining seam of him to coat the edges with searing hot fluid. He howls at the pain of the burn seeping down into his core, and then strains at the sensation as it hardens and encases him. Sealing him open so he can’t fold away and escape. How much he wants it jangles in his head against how much he doesn’t. But what can he do about that now? Locked wide open for it, he moans and arches helplessly, relievedly up as it begins to push its bulk through him.
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